The world is grey.
It's all Daryl's ever known, and all he's ever expected to see. Grey, grey, grey— to match the dullness of the world, the numb he felt inside of him for the longest he can remember, the indifference.
Grey was the blood on his face, on his back, on his hands, instead of the vivid red he often hears it be described as. It was the color of the sky, of the woods he used to hunt in and of his eyes, it was the color of the beer sitting in his father's hands before it was smashed against the nearest wall. Daryl used to wonder if maybe he could see the world's true colors, if maybe he had his match at his side, if it'd change anything.
Now he knows better; there's no such thing.
At least not for him.
No matter what he does, no matter where he looks, everything is always the same— a constant reminder that he's alone and that he always will be, just like his family long predicted. Daryl deserves nothing different.
There ain't no puzzle piece that match a broken one.
He watches as Rick loses his colors only to find it again, and he watches as Maggie and Glenn learn the different hues together. And Daryl couldn't be more happy for his family; they deserve that happiness, to be together with their match, even more now with so much pain and suffering all around.
But his world is still grey.
Daryl tries to pretend he doesn't care when the others describe a color for him, with a smile clear in their voices as if they still could barely believe it themselves. When Aaron asks for the blue piece of cloth, or Rick says they can take the red car. He shrugs their awkward apologies off when they notice the mistake, say it's no big deal really and make jokes out of it.
But it still stings, the reminder that everything is grey, grey, grey, and for him it will always be.
Until it isn't anymore.
Until he locks eyes with a complete stranger, weapon raised and the thought of just give me a reason in mind, and suddenly he can't look away no more. Daryl stares at the man, trying to understand what about him lured him like so, what made him feel so different from the rest... but he doesn't actually get it until much, much later, and the realization hits him like a slap in the face.
It's long after they're all set on their knees, after he's captured and hurt and they play that cursed song so many times it still echoes in his brain whenever he closes his eyes— after Jesus shows up on top of a truck and stays to help even though he had no reasons to.
And he helps Daryl stay himself, he talks and understands and share his own clothes and space with him just because he can and want to. He laughs with Daryl, and fights besides him too; the two having each other's backs like they were born to be a team, unspoken trust being shown with each movement they make.
And the world slowly changes as they do so.
Daryl doesn't know what it means at first, each subtle change— like it had been so gradual, so slow at first, until it was everywhere and impossible to ignore. Until the only grey left was of the asphalt under his feet and of the gun in his hands.
Until everything else came alive with colors and he saw the world as it was.
And he saw him.
They weren't even doing anything special that day, not really. Jesus had been in the middle of describing a possible new route for tradings to the group, his voice passionate though he pretended it was nothing big still, when he pushed a few rebellious strands of hair behind his ear with a frustrated sigh like that wasn't the most infuriating, endearing thing in the world to do and— oh.
Oh.
"Your eyes are blue," Daryl comments stupidly, though how he knows he can't be sure.
He notices what's been there right in front of him all along, and there's colors everywhere now, stunning new hues; Daryl can't really tell them apart at first but it doesn't matter, not to him. He doesn't think any color that isn't blue ever will.
The whole room seems to stop around them but he doesn't care, he can't, not when Jesus— Paul, it feels wrong now to call him anything else— smiles brightly like that was the best damn thing he's ever heard, lighting up instantly and not anywhere near as shocked as Daryl himself felt, the utter prick.
"I've been waiting for you to notice," is his cheeky reply, warmth visible in his shining blue eyes. "So are yours."
Daryl didn't know that, it never mattered before.
The movies and tv shows from the old world always described it as an explosion, where once there was nothing but grey suddenly was swimming in colors, but with them it was nothing like that. He didn't know until it was impossible not to, didn't see the slow change for what it is, didn't understand the subtle color changes.
Almost as if at every smile Paul gave him, each mischievous wink, at each chuckle he managed to get out of Daryl the world changed a hue at a time, slowly building up to what it was now.
Daryl sees it now, what had been there waiting for him to realize; he remembers picking up an apple and wondering why it looked strange, why everything did, his already great hunting skill sharpening up from nowhere and him being able to even better identify prey from afar. He remembers looking at the sky once and for a minute, even if just a little bit, understanding what Glenn was always babbling about and seeing the beauty of it.
He does now, too.
The world is no longer grey, hasn't been for a while, and neither is Daryl. He'll be ok— they both will.
"I like it," Daryl says, voice small but so truthful, and Paul's smile gets even wider. It makes a feeling spread through his chest in warm, heartfelt colors that the hunter can now identify as affection.
How can you have been so blind, he asks himself, but it matters none; they'll learn how to see the world now, hand in hand.
Together.
And it starts with blue.